In memory
are a few things
worth preserving:
deep sunshine taste
of a particular Key West mango;
scent of eucalyptus trees
through the windows
of a hotel
in Rancho Santa Fe;
one sharp pang of disappointment
at gray night skies
on the hills above Albuquerque
on the night of
the Perseid shower;
voices of friends, lovers, and
random phrases
overheard from strangers;
cannon hum
of an old Gibson
against my chest;
a slip of the tongue
that eventually made
for one magnificent line
in a mediocre bit of poetry;
a song in my head
that I never learned to play
or sing, but which gave me hope
every day I picked
at my strings
or my paper and pen.
In memory are things
worth preserving,
and none of them
will be found
in my bones
when I pass;
so on that day
or soon after
when they set me
on fire
may my ashes
signal no sadness
at the release of
my spirit
from my matter
but instead
flag its flight
as it is dragged
and lifted
on the kindness
of wind;
let it settle
wherever it wants,
in one or in many,
in new life
or aged lungs,
upon stone
or soft ground;
let it be true
that I didn’t matter
in life as much
as I do in what
I carried within,
what little
I leave behind:
song, flavor,
sense, breath.
Dark Matter 